The Double Blond Affair -
by girl in the glen
Summary: In this call and response story, shared with mlaw, we find two blonds that are equally frustrating to THRUSH. Although technically this could be a crossover, it's mainly MFU. Mlaw writes the even numbered chapters, girlintheglen writes the odd.
1. Chapter 1: Double Blond - a drabble

"I just had the most peculiar experience."

Illya had come into his and Napoleon's office and sat down hard, causing his chair to roll slightly.

"Peculiar? In what way?"

Napoleon had a different way of measuring what was or was not peculiar.

"I saw a man on the street who … it's ridiculous I suppose, but…"

The blond was shaking his head, seemingly unable to express himself.

"What? Don't just leave me without the punch line, Illya."

Illya looked up, his blue eyes truly disturbed. Now Napoleon was interested, if not a little concerned.

"He looked just like me."


	2. Chapter 2: Isn't This Just Ducky, Illya?

written by mlaw

~~~~~:

It was his first trip to New York city and he wanted to make the best of it, before he shipped out with the Royal Medical Corp to Vietnam in two and a half weeks time. That posting would be a challenge, as he was not accustomed to the climate. Rainy weather in England he was used to, but not the rainy season of South-East Asia. Yet, like so many things in his life, he would adapt.

He was fascinated by the sights, sounds and constant motion of people hurrying about and here were neon lights everywhere. The closest thing he'd experienced to it was Piccadilly Circus at London's West End in the City of Westminster.

He was traveling with a few of the 'lads' who'd been here before, and seemed to know their way around, though his adventurous side would have had him wandering off on his own to see the sights. There was Central Park, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Broadway and so much more, but his companions had been bar hopping all morning and were being typical 'eejits', as Liam Kelly from Dublin liked to say.

The lads dragged him off to yet another Irish public house called McSorleys on East 7th Street, though he protested, as the last place he wanted to be in New York was an Irish bar.

He could go to one of those back home, or a Scottish one for that matter anytime he wanted. No, he wanted to see New York, or at least and American bar, and that he did, as he stormed off down the street in search of one. It didn't take long as there seemed to be a pub or two every which way he turned.

He walked into a place called the Mignetta Tavern, stepping up to the bar and ordered himself a glass of Scotch from the barman, neat of course, and just as he lifted it to take a drink he turned to the door and saw a man leaving... a blond man who looked just like him.

The bar, however, was too crowded to go after the fellow, and he paused for a moment to think about that before downing his drink, feeling like he'd just seen his own reflection in a mirror.

It was a very unsettling feeling indeed, but one he was easily distracted from when a pretty blonde girl caught his attention.

He offered to buy her a drink as he introduced himself.

"Eww, I just love English accents," she flirted with him.

"Actually its Scottish. I'm from Scotland, though I spent a lot of time in London with my family after the blitz."

"Blitz? What's a blitz? Do you mean a blintz?"

He chuckled to himself, wondering if she was one of those "dumb blondes" he'd always heard about when someone told stories or jokes about the States, though he supposed there were plenty of their kind in the U.K. if one thought about it.

"Hmmm, this might prove to be a good night after all..." His eyebrows cocked, and he smiled crookedly as he continued to sip his drink.


	3. Chapter 3: Conundrum

Napoleon was curious about what had made his partner so perplexed. Lots of men had blond hair and were about Illya's size. Saying the man looked just like him was going a little far, he thought.

"Illya, are you sure you weren't just looking in a plate glass window at your own reflection?"

The scowl on the Russian's face was a warning.

"I am not so gullible as to mistake my reflection for another flesh and blood human being.'

Illya ran his hands through his hair, a sure sign of his frustration.

"I was in a pub, following that courier who's been working for Victor Marton's underling, Pierre Auberge. He went in, I followed and waited…"

Napoleon was listening, not certain of his interest just yet.

"And you waited and… then what?"

Illya leaned back in his chair, his composure returning as he continued the story.

"I was attempting to remain in the shadows, so to speak, and avoid being spotted by Louie, the courier. Into the pub walked this fellow, not particularly striking at first glance. But as he neared the bar, I realized he bore a striking resemblance … to me.'

Napoleon smiled.

"Is that all? He merely resembled you?"

"No. Not just a resemblance. I was thwarted from getting closer to him, because I did not want to draw attention to myself, but as I passed by him and … '

Now Illya's brows shot up into an expression that normally caused secretaries to swoon.

"Napoleon, he looked exactly like me. I could have been observing myself in the mirror. Louie was on his way out the door so I couldn't stop and introduce myself, but the man was my double."

Napoleon knew his partner to be a man not given to emotionalism or rash impulses. The Russian was as methodical as they came.

"Okay Illya. So, what do you want us to do about it?"


	4. Chapter 4: A Touring We Will Go by mlaw

written by mlaw

~~~~~:

The next morning, he excused himself from the amorous arms of the young lady he'd spent the night with, finding out her name was Shirley. It had been a wonderful evening, and was one that was completely unexpected.

He'd always fancied himself a bit of a ladies man, and here there were beautiful women, ripe for the picking but he could focus on that later as there were places to go and things to do.

Shirley offered to meet him for lunch but he declined. His intent was to head to the Metropolitan Museum of Art as he heard they had a rather extensive ancient Egyptian art collection.

As he climbed the museum steps, he was in awe of the Corinthian columns that were part of the facade. It seemed like a completed structure at first glance, but looking closer, he saw what looked like piles of stone blocks at the tops of the columns. He was told they were placed there during construction, around the turn of the 20th century, and were supposed to have been carved into sculptures representing music, architecture, painting and ironically sculpture, but instead these stones for 94 years, un-carved and virtually ignored, technically leaving the building unfinished.

He wandered from gallery to gallery, stopping to admire the many pieces collected by the museum; alabaster canopic jars, sarcophagi, statuary and jewelry and even reconstructed temple and tomb entrances. The collection was astounding, so much so that he made a mental note to visit the middle east one day, see the pyramids and perhaps get involved in an archaeological dig, just for a bit of fun. There were so many things in the world that interested him...

As he sat on a marble bench to admire a beautifully carved stelae and brightly painted 'fresco a secco' in Italian, dating from the Middle Kingdom, he couldn't help noticing a man out of the corner of his eye. The fellow seemed to be popping up in every gallery he'd gone to, and it suddenly occurred to him, the cheeky fellow might be following him.

He'd been warned about being careful not to get mugged while in New York. Could it be the man was sizing him up as a potential victim? His military training in hand-to- hand combat quickly came to mind, though as a physician he'd never thought he might need it.


	5. Chapter 5: He's Here, Not There

It was another twenty-four hours before the two partners were able to revisit the subject of Illya's double. The Russian agent had been called into action once more, tailing the THRUSH courier until late in the evening. He had almost forgotten about the man in the pub until he awoke from a disturbing dream that had him meeting the man face to face, only to find that they both looked like Louie, the courier from THRUSH.

Napoleon hadn't forgotten about Illya's story of a look a like in the pub, but it was entirely possible that the resemblance was less than Illya imagined it to be. When he suggested this to his friend, the returning silence was deafening.

"Look Illya, I'll go along with this idea of you having a double, but maybe we should go to Mr. Waverly with this before taking any action.

As Illya contemplated what type of response to give his friend, both of their communicators began to warble a familiar tune.

"It's your turn."

Napoleon feigned annoyance as he answered his.

"Solo here, along with Mr. Kuryakin."

"Oh, I thought perhaps Illy…Mr. Kuryakin was alone.'

Illya and Napoleon exchanged puzzled expressions.

"What's up … Sally?"

Illya silently mouthed the name with an implied question mark.

"Is Mr. Kuryakin able to speak, Mr. Solo?"

Illya took the pen like implement from Napoleon's hand.

"Sally, this is Mr. Kuryakin. Is there a problem?"

The pause was full of questions on both ends of the conversation.

"Uh… well, you see … Communications picked up some chatter on a THRUSH channel, and it seemed to … well it indicated that you, or… at least they said the name Kuryakin … You're at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. And it doesn't look too good for you at the moment."

Now Napoleon was interested.

"Sally, what exactly was said? And what do you mean by things not looking good for Illya?"

Another pause was endured.

"Let me read the transcript… hold on. Okay, here it is:

I have the Russian… Yeah, the little blond guy…"

Illya raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"Umm… shall I go on?"

"Yes Sally, please continue."

_"You want me to what? It'll make a mess in here but, whatever you say mister…_

That's where they lost the channel."

"Thank you Sally, and you can assure everyone that Mr. Kuryakin is quite safe and he's with me. Okay?"

"Yes Mr. Solo. I'll send word back to Communications. Is there anything you want me to do?"

Illya shook his head, confirming to Napoleon that this would be their operation.

"We'll be heading for the museum, so if you'll please let Mr. Waverly know our destination, that will be all. Solo out."

Napoleon looked at his partner with an intense scrutiny. Was it possible that there really was another Illya out there?

"Well tovarisch, I say we take a trip down to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and see if we can find your man."

"He isn't _my man_, Napoleon. He is simply a man who looks like me."

The hum of irritation was very close to the surface now.

"Are you sure it isn't the other way around? Perhaps _you_ look like _him_."

"Very funny. At least we know it isn't a THRUSH plot, like the incident with your manufactured double.'

Illya paused in his stride towards the office door. His shoulders slumped slightly as he put his hand on the wall to steady himself.

"Napoleon, I do not have a twin. How…?"

As he came to stand beside his friend, the American slapped Illya on the back in an effort to lighten the sudden mood change.

"I don't know, and we're not likely to if we don't get over to the Met and find this … look-a-like of yours."

"_Doppelgänger._"

Napoleon closed the office door and stood staring at Illya, his thoughts going now in a million different directions.

"What? A dopple… an evil twin? Illya, don't go all Russian on me. This is perhaps extraordinary, but in no way is this some ghostly apparition sent to … you know. It isn't a doppelganger. This is just a man who looks like you."

That made the blond smile.

"Well, at least we got _that _straight. Let us go, my friend. The hunt is on."


	6. Chapter 6: Blond Man Down by mlaw

He rose from the bench, walking out of the Egyptian gallery into another, not stopping as now he was sure the man was indeed following him. Eventually making his way into the Medieval section, he quickly ducked into a reproduction of a Medieval street, leading to a low domed gallery supported by intricately carved pillars. It instantly changed the mood to one of something dark and sinister

He was surprised the door posts were set so low, surmising that people from those times were of shorter stature than 20th century man.

His mind was drifting, as it always had a habit of doing... leaping from one interesting thought to another. He often seemed to be talking to himself, as somehow his stories, observations and anecdotes seemed to bore people. He had no idea why, as they were usually quite interesting subjects. He corrected himself, now was not the time for meanderings of the mind.

"Focus old man, " he whispered to himself, but it was too late.

He felt hands grab him from behind, and as he struggled he cried out, "Unhand me you blaggard!"

"Blaggard? That was the best he could come up with? No one talked like that anymore, who was he kidding?

Good question, and who were these people and what did they want of him? They said a name, "Kuryakin." he recognized it as Russian.

Could these be Russian spies trying to kidnap a British military man? For what purpose?

Too many questions were left unanswered as they injected something into his arm and everything went black...


	7. Chapter 7: Why Me? Asks Illya

Napoleon and Illya made quick work of getting to the museum, bypassing their usual nod to the traffic laws. Illya was at the wheel, and it was no small feat of endurance that Napoleon arrived without one word of protest at the maniacal driving skills the Russian exhibited as they sped towards their goal.

By the time they arrived, a small crowd had gathered near the columned entry to a medieval display. On any other day, Illya would have enjoyed exploring the spot, but now he had a bad feeling about the setting.

"What's going on here?"

Napoleon approached the security guard, his best smile in place as he began gathering information.

"Who are you to be askin'?"

A mild Irish brogue accented the man's speech, and he grudgingly gave up his meager store of knowledge when Napoleon showed him his UNCLE identification.

"Oh, well then… some fellas were seen draggin' another one outa here like he was a rag doll, all fallin' down and… He musta been knocked out or something."

The security guard stopped, his gaze settling on Illya.

"Funny thing, but the description of the man who got himself dragged outa here could be this one. Now, tha'ts uncanny."

Napoleon followed the man's finger as it pointed to the Russian. The two agents acknowledged what each one was thinking.

"Did anyone see where these men went after leaving here? Or did they just watch as an unconscious man was dragged away?"

Illya was impatient to get some useful answers. THRUSH had the man because of the resemblance he bore to the UNCLE agent, and he had every intention of making certain that no harm was done to him. No additional harm, at any rate.

"A couple of ladies… there they are over there… They saw three men get into a black sedan. Not much else to tell us though."

As Illya turned to see to whom the guard was referring, he was met with more fingers pointing at him accompanied by looks of surprise on the ladies' faces.

"That's him! You're the one we saw being dragged out of here. Oh my, isn't that something."

Napoleon approached the two women; they looked to be in their late sixties or early seventies. Properly dressed for a day at a museum, they sported white gloves and little hats that reminded Illya of the ones worn by organ grinder monkeys. He immediately wondered why that image had come to mind.

"Now, I can assure you lovely ladies that this man is definitely not the one you saw being abducted."

As Illya approached, the two little museum devotees looked first at the blond, then at each other.

"Surely you're wrong, young man. We saw him…'

They pointed at Illya again, this time with a firm set to their mouths.

"Two thugs dragged him out of here, all limp and helpless. We tried to follow them, but they got into their big black car and drove away."

Napoleon's brow furrowed as he considered the vehemence of their eyewitness report. A doppelganger wouldn't be likely to be knocked out, would he?

"You were very brave to follow them outside, Miss…?''

"Erma Lee and Vergie Lansing."

Napoleon nodded, as did Illya.

"I am Napoleon Solo, and this is my associate, Illya Kuryakin."

"Pleased to meet you… You certainly have interesting names."

Napoleon smiled while Illya stepped away to contact headquarters. Waverly would need to know about this, although how to tell him was something yet to be determined.

"What makes you think this is the same fellow? I assure you he isn't, because Mr. Kuryakin and I have been at work, together, all morning."

Erma and Vergie both cut their eyes to check the other's reaction to that. Erma seemed to the spokesperson for the pair.

"That, Mr. Solo, is quite extraordinary, because I assure you that other young man looked exactly like your Mr. Kura, Kuri…"

"Kuryakin. Exactly? Are you certain of that?"

Two grey heads nodded in unison to the question as Illya approached. Mr. Waverly wanted them to continue searching for the innocent who had been mistaken for Illya, track him and his abductors and shut down the satrapy to which they had most certainly gone.

Illya was holding something, and as he stepped into the little group he indicated to Napoleon that they should speak privately.

"Excuse us ladies."

Illya led Napoleon back to the area where their mystery man had met up with the men from THRUSH. In searching the entry, Illya had found a piece of paper with a phone number and a name: Shirley.

"I had a search run and we have an address on this Shirley, based on the phone number. I think we should go there first and see what she knows about all of this, and about this … this man."

Napoleon agreed. There was nothing else here for them, but a team from HQ would be in to go over it for anything not yet discovered.

"Okay, let's go. Perhaps it will play to our advantage that she's going to think that you are the other fellow. Play along, Illya. It's all we have right now."

Illya agreed.


	8. Chapter 8: I Beg Your Pardon by mlaw

by mlaw

He woke, finding himself in the backseat of a black sedan motoring off to who knows where. His eyes were blindfolded, but he pulled the cloth down in spite of his hands being tied. The sounds of the city were gone, and all he could see was a green tree-lined rural road.

"Oh, so you're finally awake...Mr. Kuryakin," said a rather rough-looking man who was pointing an odd looking rifle with some sort of red scope attached to the stock.

"I beg your pardon, but I am not this Mr. Kuryakin. You've made a terrible mistake my good man."

"They said you were a tricky one, real good at lying." He snickered at the Russian." Do you really think I'm that stupid."

"How could I think that? I don't even know you. Now just who is this Kuryakin fellow, maybe I could help you find him and get this mess straightened out...but then again, maybe not," he mumbled, nervously eying the rifle and rethinking his suggestion.

"Quit you're tricks Kuryakin. We know you were following our courier and now that we've gotten you out of the way, that's one less U.N.C.L.E. agent we'll have to worry about."

"Uncle? Whose Uncle? And will you answer my bloody question...who is this Kuryakin?"

"Shut your trap," the man slammed the rifle into his stomach.

He let out a yell, gasping for breath. "Please don't do that again? I tell you, you've made a mistake my name is..."

"Shut up or I'll shut you up with another dose of drugs."

"What drugs, what did you give me?"

"Standard T.H.R.U.S.H. formula. You have a headache yet?"

"No, no headache. Why? And what in heavens name does a bird have to do with it?

"Because I was told you always got really bad headaches from our sleep formulas."

He shook his head, asking himself "Why didn't he stay with his friends and to out drinking, or with that lovely girl Shirley, then none of this would have happened to him." He tried taking a deep calming breath.

The sedan hit a rather large pothole in the road, tossing about the occupants in rear of the car.

One of the doors flew open, and though the prisoner's hands were tied, it was his one opportunity to escape and he took it, throwing himself out to the ground and rolling as he hit it.

Paratrooper training had finally come in handy as he disappeared into a roadside ditch.


	9. Chapter 9: There Are Two Of You?

The apartment building loomed above the two agents as they checked the address for Shirley Norene one more time.

"Sounds Swedish."

Napoleon smirked a little…

"Sounds like your type. Who is this guy I wonder?"

Entering the lobby and ascertaining the direction they needed was up, the two hit the elevator button and waited for the door to open. A distinguished looking man in a uniform hailed them before they could enter the car.

"Excuse me gentlemen, but you haven't been here before. May I help you?'

He stopped short when Illya turned around.

"Oh, sorry sir. I'll call Miss Norene and let her know you have returned."

With that he returned to his desk and dialed the number for the woman in question. It was easier than making up a story in the hallway; at least Illya supposed it would be.

"She's expecting you Mr. Mallard. Let me know if I can be of any further assistance."

Raised eyebrows all around. As the elevator headed up to the ninth floor, Napoleon couldn't help but wonder how Shirley would react when she saw Illya up close. Would he actually fool her? This was the most interesting affair they'd encountered in quite some time.

When they reached the door of Miss Shirley Norene, Napoleon stepped aside so that Illya could make the first impression. As it happened, the first impression was made on Illya, for Shirley threw open the door and, without much hesitation, wrapped her arms around Illya's neck and attached her lips to his for what seemed a very long time. At least it was a long wait for Napoleon who stood and watched as his partner yielded to the young lady's desire admirably; all in the line of duty, of course.

Finally, and with what seemed a little reluctance, Illya pulled away from Shirley so that he could speak. When he did she drew back her hand and slapped him. Hard, right across his left cheek.

"Ow. What was that for?"

"That, Mr. Smarty Scotch Pants, is for leaving out of here and not even asking for a second date. I practically had to force my phone…'

Her speech started to slow as she examined Illya a little more closely.

"You … There's something different about you Ducky… Smile for me!"

Illya stepped back, his instincts telling him that she had spotted something about him that was giving him away.

"Smile. Pretty please…"

Illya smiled. Not knowing what it was she had seen or thought was there, he wasn't sure if he should remain guarded or simply… smile.

"Where's the gap between your teeth? Last night you had a sweet little gap between your two front teeth and now… '

Closer she came to him, and then her eyes got big and she backed up a little. She slapped Illya again.

"Ow. Would you please quit doing that."

"You're not Ducky. Who are you?"

Now it was Napoleon's turn to step into the fray.

"Miss Shirley Norene? Uh, my name is Napoleon Solo, and this is my associate Illya Kuryakin…'

Shirley gasped, all the while staring wild eyed at the Russian.

"Oh my god, are you a spy? Where's Ducky? What have you done with him? Why do you look like him? Oh my god!"

Illya took Shirley by the shoulders and started moving them all inside her apartment. Much more of this and the neighbors would be involved.

"Please, just listen to us. This Mallard fellow… Ducky?"

Shirley nodded, still not able to take her eyes off of the man who looked like her bedmate from the night before.

"Donald. Donald Mallard, from Scotland. Well, not recently, but he's Scottish, and he's here with some of his friends exploring New York and …'

A smile crept across her face. _And me_, she wanted to add, but resisted.

"When he left this morning he said he was going to go to the Museum, by himself. I gave him my number, so when you showed up…"

"Yes, you thought he had returned. I apologize."

Napoleon was fascinated by this whole episode. Imagine, two men who look like Illya and seemingly have the same effect on women.

"Miss Norene, we are trying to find Mr. Mallard … Ducky. He has run into some rather disreputable people, and we were hoping you might help us locate him."

Now that they were confronting this individual, there was really nothing she could do to help. THRUSH wasn't using her, that was obvious. The danger had come after leaving here, which meant they still didn't know where this Mallard fellow was, or where he was likely to be taken.

"You sure do look like Ducky. Are you related to him? I mean, you could be his twin. Heck, you could be him, except for the front teeth."

For a brief moment the thought occurred to her that he might be like Ducky in other ways as well…

Napoleon extended his hand, holding the gold UNCLE card with the phone number that would reach headquarters.

"Miss Norene, here is our card. If you should hear from Mr. Mallard, please have him contact us, or you give us a call. It's very important. And again, we're sorry for disturbing you."

Shirley absolutely purred. _First Ducky, and now these two_. The possibilities were endless as she closed the door and sighed.


	10. Chapter 10: I Just Called To Say by mlaw

written by mlaw

~~~~~:

As soon as Mallard's momentum stopped he crawled quickly through the brush, trying to escape those maniacs with the rifles. Who this Kuryakin fellow was, he had no idea, and no doubt when they did catch up with the real one, there was going to be some sort of reckoning.

He planned not to be around for that and crawled through the thick underbrush as quickly as he could, and at least his hands tied in front of him made for easier maneuvering.

The sedan had screeched to a halt and he heard the mens voices yelling to each other as to where to start searching. Then an argument of sorts began between them, allowing him even more time to get farther away from them.

He could still hear them battling it out in the distance like two school children, and little by little their voices faded until they were inaudible.

Donald halted his escape beside a rather large rock, and rubbing the ropes against a sharp edge, he cut though them in no time.

As he walked through the woods, he worked his way around in an arc, leading back to the road but ahead of where he guessed the sedan had last been, in hopes they would double back in search of him. After wandering along the tree line as it paralleled the road, he happened upon a small diner, its copper metallic siding now dull with parts of it stained from age.

"Oh thank heavens," he muttered, staggering up to a telephone booth to the rear of the building.

He reached into his pocket, praying he had change and found one single dime...enough for a short telephone call. Mallard looked at his wristwatch, noting the time and convinced himself his traveling companions were no doubt blottoed out of their minds somewhere in a bar in Manhattan.

He knew no one..."Wait a minute?" He dug in his pocket again for a slip of paper, one he'd written a telephone number on. "Damn," he cursed, not finding it, then racking his brain, he recalled the number, one digit at a time.

"NY.I- 5555. That had to be it," he said as he spun the rotary dial.

It rang several times before a familiar voice answered, "Hello?"

"Yes, Shirley its Donald. Sorry to bother you like this, but I'm in a bit of a mess and I need your help..." He explained his predicament to her.

"Well, I'm sorry I can't help you, but there was a couple of guys just here who can. And would you believe it one of them could have been your twin brother, but I could tell it wasn't you...he didn't have that cute little gap like you have between your front teeth and his kissed differently from you."

Ducky was sure the woman could see him blushing over the telephone, "His name didn't happen, per chance, to be Kuryakin, did it?


	11. Chapter 11: To The Rescue!

Napoleon and Illya had returned to headquarters with nothing to show for their efforts except for Illya's memory of the kiss he'd received from Shirley. Whoever the man was they were chasing, he had certainly left an impression on the girl, and she had left quite an impression on Illya.

Napoleon took note of the uncharacteristic mood, not the usual Russian melancholy but something more wistful. He remembered what it had felt like to meet his own double, but that had been an unnatural encounter; the man's features had been surgically altered to replicate the handsome American. This fellow Mallard, he was just a freak occurrence, and he wondered how Illya would react when the two met face to face.

"Illya, penny for your thoughts."

The blond turned to look at his partner, the kiss evaporating once more as he determined to think only of the work and not of soft lips and …

"This fellow seems to be rather carefree, does he not? He comes here on holiday, meets women and encounters THRUSH in a museum… '

A smile bloomed across the Russian's face, his eyes a shade of blue that usually reflected an elevated mood.

"He is having himself quite a time. I look forward to meeting this Ducky Mallard."

"I imagine he's keen to meet you as well, tovarisch. Being mistaken for Illya Kuryakin isn't exactly a free ride, especially with a bunch of thugs chasing you."

Illya steepled his fingers in front of his face, the stern expression returning.

"Yes, you are probably right about that. I hope…'

The phone rang, prompting Napoleon to reach for it and answer.

"Solo."

He looked up at Illya as he was reaching for a pencil and paper…

"Yes. Great, thank you Vera. Oh… yes, Thursday is still on. B'bye."

Illya's brows shot up questioningly.

"Vera? The girl from …?"

Napoleon nodded, a grin on his satisfied face.

"And, she has a message for us from Mr. Mallard. He's waiting for us at a diner outside of the city…"

Napoleon proceeded to fill Illya in on the details as they were exiting headquarters. By the time they had walked out of Del Floria's they had a plan in motion.


	12. Chapter 12: Seeing Double by mlaw

written by mlaw

~~~~~:

Mallard received a call back on the payphone that help was indeed on the way. There was nothing to it but to sit and wait. At least he was at the diner and reached to his inside breast pocket, finding his wallet still there along with his passport.

"Oh good God," he blurted out, if those idiots had only looked at his British passport, then all of this nonsense could have been avoided. Then again, if they really found out he wasn't this Kuryakin fellow, who knew what they might have done with him. He'd been kidnapped, and the reality of it was they would have most likely killed him, and returned to their search for the Russian.

He opened the billfold and happily found his American currency intact, and decided a good cup of Earl Grey was in order. The interior of the diner was just as dingy as the outside, and Ducky put a paper napkin opened up in front of him on the not so clean looking counter as he sat on a stool. He tried not to stare at the motley crew lined up along beside him. Though chuckling to himself, he realized he'd seen worst rejects in the Sheeps Heid Inn, in Edinburgh during his medical school days.

"Those were wonderful times," he reminisced in his head, as his thoughts drifted to his former paramour, Aileen Abernathy.

A woman dressed in a while blouse and black skirt, seemingly the waitress, approached him while snapping a wad of gum in her mouth. "What'll you have mister?"

"Ah yes my good woman, a lovely cup of Earl Grey would do nicely if you please?"

"Earl Grey? What's a Earl Grey?"

Ducky sighed, as he'd forgotten their savage ways here, no Earl Grey. Just something called "Lipton's"...by his estimation, it was 'tea dust' in a bag, and quite appalling. Then again beggars couldn't be choosers."

"Tea then please," he asked quietly.

Several more cups of not so pleasing tea, and a pastrami on rye sandwich passed the time until two men walked into the diner. One dark-haired and handsomely dressed, and the other wearing a simple black suit and turtleneck was the blond, Ducky recognized instantly as his double.

He stood, walking over to them, holding out his hand in greeting.

"Ah, Mr. Kuryakin we meet at last."

Both he and Illya stared at each other intently, eying the goods so to speak. Illya slowly raised his right hand, palm facing Ducky. Ducky for some odd reason made the same gesture but with his left hand...placing it against Illyas.

Napoleon stood by watching as the two men rotated their hands, making them look as though they were a single person looking at his reflection while polishing a mirror. They leaned in at the same time, staring into each others eyes, then smiled. The spell was broken when they laughed.

"I see you indeed do not have a gap between your front teeth, "Ducky noted.

"Ah yes, that was the observation Shirley made," Illya responded dryly, letting his thoughts drift back just for a secont to her kiss.

"Well it's good to know we're not exactly alike, as I found the thought of it a bit unnerving." Ducky shook his head. "And now the truth has set us free."

"Ahem," Napoleon cleared his throat, feeling ignored."

"Oh dear, I am sorry," Duck apologized, again reaching out to shake Napoleon's hand.

"Dr. Donald Mallard, Captain in her Her Majesties Royal Army Medical Corps," he said with a barely perceptible Scottish burr.

"Napoleon Solo, and of course you've met Illya Kuryakin, " he shook Mallard's hand. " We're with an organization called U.N.C.L.E. the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. We're sorry your resemblance to Mr. Kuryakin has gotten you pulled into a very dangerous game Doctor."

"Indeed it has, but I do have to admit, my escape from those thugs was rather exciting."

"Those thugs," Illya interjected, "are members of an evil organization called the Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesireables and the Subjugation of Humanity."

"Ah yes they did use the name Thrush, now that I recall. That is quite a mouthful, and the name does indeed sound threatening. They asked me if the sleeping drug they injected me with gave me a headache, and told me, thinking I was you Mr. Kuryakin, were prone to terrible ones from it, is that true? I had no idea that organizations existed like yours and this Thrush, though I suppose they are a counterpoint to the UK's MI6...

Illya interrupted the Scotsman's mild ramblings. Dr. Mallard unlike the Russian, was an obvious 'talker.'

"Yes I do get those headaches very much so, and call me Illya please?"

"And you must call me Ducky." He noted Illya's perplexed look," The nickname I earned at Edinburgh Medical School, and a story for another time perhaps."

They walked out from the diner still chatting together like long lost brothers as Illya filled Ducky in with more details of T.H.R.U.S.H. Ducky warned Illya of their plans for him, and just as they neared a silver convertible, he spotted the Thrushmen.

"That's the men who kidnapped me," Ducky pointed across the parkinglot.

The Thrush charged after the U.N.C.L.E. agents and Mallard, firing their weapons, and in amazement there were indeed two Illya Kuryakins.

Napoleon, knowing Ducky was a military man, tossed him a back-up pistol. Though he was an innocent, he figured the man was being shot at too and he might as well be able to defend himself.

Ducky caught the weapon, and instantly tossed it back to the agent.

"Sorry dear boy, I'm a doctor. I save lives and don't take them."


	13. Chapter 13: So That's How It's Done

The UNCLE agents ran towards their car, pulling the sputtering Scot along between them. If the man wouldn't fire a gun then he'd better duck and run. At least, that's what Napoleon was thinking as he pulled out his keys with his left hand while sending a THRUSH gunman into some bushes with his keen aim.

Illya pushed the other blond into the cramped vehicle, wondering not for the first time whose idea it had been to design something this impractical for the spy business. As luck (or the lack of it) would have it, Illya stepped back momentarily as Ducky was being shoved into the silver car, allowing the miniscule chance that he could be hit. And he was. The Scotsman yelped as his shoulder took a bullet, to which Illya replied with two shots into the crowd from which it had come, sending two more THRUSH to the ground.

That depleted their ranks sufficiently for the three men to get away from the scene as the patrons and staff of the diner peered out from the dingy eatery, all of them mired in awe and disbelief, and more than a little tinge of fear.

The silver UNCLE car was speeding towards the city and headquarters as Illya called in for a team to meet them at the Command's emergency medical entrance. Having done that, the Russian checked the wound of the now unconscious Scot.

"Ironic, he's the doctor and now in need of medical attention. Considering he was unwilling to use a weapon…"

Napoleon turned his attention from the road, just momentarily, to respond.

"He has his standards; we have to admire him for that, don't you think?"

Illya nodded, although it made Napoleon wonder if it was an ascent or disagreement; sometimes Illya utilized the uncertainty.

"Perhaps he will reconsider his stance, especially if he is headed into a war zone. Still, I do believe this is a man of some moral conviction.'

A smile ensued, just as they were pulling into view of a gurney and an assortment of medical personnel.

"What are you smiling about, Illya?"

"Oh, just thinking of Shirley… and morals."

Just then the car came to a halt and doors opened, hands reached in to pull out the reawakening patient. All at once there was a suspension of activity as the nurse and orderly looked first at Illya, and then at Ducky.

"Oh… Is he?"

Illya shook his head.

"No, he is not my brother, my cousin or any other relative. He is however shot and in need of medical attention."

That set the two into action once more as the wounded blond came haltingly out of the cramped car and allowed himself to be loaded onto the waiting gurney. The entourage continued into the underground facility while a Section III agent took his place behind the wheel of the prized UNCLE car, if only for a turn around the parking structure.

Once inside, Ducky was rushed into a surgical suite in order to extract the bullet and make repairs where necessary. Illya and Napoleon headed up to Mr. Waverly's office, something they had been instructed to do in no uncertain terms. It was a short journey through the familiar corridors, wordless now as the two agents each surmised what their superior might have in store for them.

As the doors swished open, the sight of the venerable head of the Northwest Region (and possibly beyond), elicited an involuntary surge of propriety; their shoulders squared as they assumed the respective seats to which they were accustomed. The two didn't have to wait long for Waverly to acknowledge their presence.

"Gentlemen… '

The eyebrows shot up in mock surprise at seeing them already seated. Napoleon sometimes wondered at that, because of course he knew they were sitting there already. The expression reappeared almost every time these conversations were initiated.

"I understand you have been involved in some new intrigue that was not part of any ongoing operation. Is that correct?"

Not willing to look around at his partner, each man kept his attention on the elder in the room. It was Illya, however, who spoke up.

"Not exactly, sir. That is to say… I was involved yesterday, if you will recall, in tailing a known THRUSH courier who had been spotted leaving one of their suspected business fronts. It is operated by Pierre Auberge, one of Victor Marton's men here in the United States."

Waverly nodded.

"Ah, yes. Well, that seems to have no resolution that I can see. How is that you have encountered this …'

Waverly shuffled some papers in search of the appropriate report. He had a record, of course, of all the intel and communications regarding the past two days activities.

"…ahh… a Mr. Donald Mallard, a British citizen here as part of a military attaché. He is headed for Southeast Asia, it seems."

The old man put down his paper and stared at the other two men in the room. Answers were required. Napoleon took this leg of the explanation.

"Yes sir, well… You see … Mr. Mallard was spotted by some men who are associates of Louie, the courier being followed by Mr. Kuryakin. They abducted him, Mr. Mallard that is, from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, in front of witnesses. We responded to that and …'

Illya cut his eyes to assess his partner's need for assistance, and decided to jump in.

"Sir, this Mr. Mallard looks a lot like … well, he looks like me.''

"Sir, he looks _exactly_ like Illya. Exactly."

Napoleon's addition was greeted by a slight smile on the old man's face. It was a contradiction to the lack of emotion from just a few seconds before.

"Yes, gentlemen … uh, Mr. Kuryakin. I have seen a photograph of this Mr. Donald Mallard, and the resemblance is quite uncanny. I imagine it gave THRUSH quite a scare when they observed the two of you side by side."

A sigh of relief was the response of both Napoleon and Illya. At least Mr. Waverly understood the why of it. Things should be better now… hopefully.

"It still evades me as to how you ended up in a gun battle in front of a diner full of innocents. And now I understand that Mr. Mallard has been shot. Certainly not one of your better days, is it. And what of this Louie, the courier?"

Illya cowered a little. He never had completed the assignment and gotten the parcel the little bird was carrying. In reviewing his performance there was a twinge of embarrassment at such unprofessional behavior, all because of the sighting of …

"Mr. Mallard's situation provoked us into the action we took, sir. With an innocent in danger, and all of it on account of his resemblance to me …"

Waverly nodded his understanding. He knew the sense of responsibility inherent in the Russian's temperament, and that he would not have been likely to allow the other young man to suffer at the hands of THRUSH.

"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin. I see your dilemma.'

Waverly took a deep breath, raised his face again to peer at his agents.

"Very well. See to the young man, but get back to finding out what that parcel contained, and take care of this Louie fellow. If Victor Marton has anything to do with this then there's no telling what might happen next. Do I make myself clear?"

Two 'Yes Sir' responses resounded in the room. Illya and Napoleon rose from their seats and headed out the door and back to medical before going in pursuit of Louie and the missing parcel.

Ducky was in recovery by the time his rescuers made it to the reception desk to check on the ailing doctor. Being informed that he would be out for at least an hour or more gave the agents all the information they needed.

"Let's go and pay a visit to that storefront you mentioned, the one run by Pierre Auberge. What sort of business is it, anyway?"

Illya cringed a little, his anticipation of what might be required of him should they need to infiltrate the establishment was not pleasant.

"It is a male strip club. That is to say, the men do the stripping and women…"

Napoleon feigned a slight shiver, and then smiled at the prospect of going undercover … literally.

"Yes, I think I get it. So, who does the honors, tovarisch?"

From there the men from UNCLE headed to the formerly secret club, a scandalous sort of place among other skin baring establishments in a seedy section of Brooklyn. Illya had ascertained the nature of this business when he entered yesterday, but the presence of several recognized THRUSH goons sent him out the front door. Not before he got a look at the stage, however. Performing, if one chose to lend it that much, were two men clad only in what appeared to be what he thought was referred to as a G-string, and not capital letters at that.

Illya and Napoleon found themselves parked across the street from the Male Box, the front entrance made to look like a red and blue postal box complete with a guard outside the door dressed like a mailman. What else?

"Okay… This definitely looks like something you're more suited too, IK. Besides, you're more comfortable stripped down to your briefs than I am… must be a European thing."

Illya looked cross, his blue eyes now more of a worrisome grey shade.

"How do you come to that conclusion? You're the one who would welcome the wandering hands of some strange female. I absolutely refuse to go in there and…"

Napoleon reached into his pocket and pulled out his communicator.

"Solo here."

"Ah yes, um… Mr. Solo. Are you at your destination?"

"Why, yes sir, we are. We were just discussing…"

"It seems Mr. Mallard has gotten loose. An unsuspecting secretary met him wandering in the halls and, not knowing he wasn't Mr. Kuryakin, relayed the information on your location to the wily Scot. This man may turn into a real nuisance. I expect you to take care of the situation, and him."

Illya rolled his eyes as Napoleon stammered a response.

"Uh, wow… all right… Yes sir. We'll be on the lookout. Mr. Kuryakin was just preparing to go into the club … undercover."

The smile on Napoleon's face was too much for the blond.

"Sir, the situation is completely untenable, and I …"

"And you will do whatever is necessary, Mr. Kuryakin. Am I clear?"

Reluctantly, and with a dangerous blue glare settled on his partner, Illya nodded in compliance.

"Yes sir, I understand. Out."

With that settled, Illya began stripping of his jacket and shirt, leaving him in a white undershirt and his trousers. He deftly rolled up the sleeves on the shirt, allowing some muscle in the lean arms to be exposed.

"Nice look there, tovarsich. Maybe they won't recognize you in your underwear."

If scowling were an artform, Kuryakin would have blue ribbons for his efforts.

"Not likely, Napoleon. THRUSH has, no doubt, an entire album of photographs featuring me in nothing more than my underwear. They have made a career of undressing me, in case you have forgotten."

"No…' laughter punctuated the gloom in the Russian's statement, all of it coming from his friend.

"No, I remember. Gee, Illya, they have magazines and clubs for that. Oh, wait, that's where we're going."

"I could punch you for that, but seeing as I have work to do…"

Illya opened the car door and ran across the street, inquired something of the man at the door and was shown in. As Napoleon watched his partner go into the THRUSH lair, he was suddenly aware of yet another blond man walking up to the faux postman at the door.

"Oh great! Ducky, you have great timing."

The young Scot was weaving just a little, a result of the painkillers he had probably received back in Medical. Napoleon wasn't certain of his next move, but with Illya already inside and Ducky chatting up the guard, things were bound to get busy real soon. From across the street, the American agent watched as recognition bloomed onto the THRUSH's face. Two men, same face, same day as all of the excitement of chasing two Kuryakins…

Napoleon bounded from the car, no longer able to justify sitting and waiting to see what might happen. Illya and now Ducky were in danger, and Pierre Auberge was probably inside and only too accommodating to the prospect of capturing them both.

The wounded doctor seemed to be insisting that he be allowed inside, and the postman guard was getting his hand on a communicator of some sort. Theirs still looked like walkie talkies, a momentary observation on Napoleon's part that made him glad UNCLE was at least more advanced in that department.

"Hey, I was wondering…'

Napoleon approached the two men, hopeful that the inexperienced Ducky wouldn't blow it for them.

"Is this a good restaurant, because I've been hearing a lot about your menu?"

The guard looked puzzled, and that hesitation gave Napoleon the opportunity to relieve him of his consciousness when he pricked him with a sleep dart from his coat pocket. Ducky watched the man falter, then took one arm as Napoleon grabbed the other, still laughing as though the man wasn't completely incoherent.

"That's some greeting you carry, Napoleon. I…'

The young blond seemed to understand now that he might have interrupted something.

"Is Illya inside? I say, I had no intention of disrupting your plans, only I…"

Napoleon put his hand up as they deposited the postman inside the club's front door. He looked around, expecting to see others, but instead heard only some conversation coming from the other side of the room, seemingly behind a large room divider.

"Sshhh…. No talking, just follow me and try not to get in the way. Got it?"

Ducky nodded, and Napoleon realized once again how much like his partner this man was. It was a little disturbing.

The two of them made their way across the room, intent on reaching the spot where Napoleon now recognized his partner speaking. Then he recognized the sound of a blow being landed on flesh, and Illya grunting in pain. Ducky stopped, his instincts on high alert as he looked to the American for direction.

Napoleon motioned for Ducky to go to the right, while he headed for the left hand opening to the room divider. Standing in the shadows now, Ducky's shoulder was suddenly pounding in memory of the recent bullet wound, probably from carrying part of the weight of the fallen THRUSH.

Napoleon was approaching the entry to the space behind the wall, the sounds of more brutality causing his stomach to knot up in concern and anger. As he reached the edge of the doorway, his hand was on his Walther…

"Hello there. I suggest you stop what you are doing and release my friend there."

The tone of his voice was chilling, and the two goons on either side of Illya stepped back involuntarily at the sound of it. On recovering some faltering bravado, one of them, Louie the courier, grabbed Illya and placed a tattooed arm around the Russian's neck, the implication clear.

"Well, if it isn't Mr. Napoleon Solo. We wondered when you'd find your way here. What are you two, Siamese twins?"

Napoleon merely smiled, a hint of danger causing the other THRUSH to take another step backwards. When he did, Ducky was behind him and conked him on the head with a large, heavy bottom beer mug. The man went down in a heap as his partner turned to see what the disturbance was. Illya took that opportunity to head butt his assailant, giving Ducky another opportunity for violence, which he reluctantly embraced. Donald Mallard was not a violent man.

"Good job, Ducky. Illya?"

The Russian straightened his shoulders and twisted his head and neck a little, to be sure.

"I'm fine, although I believe my approach was too easily recognized.'

A shy smile came over his face, glad to be rescued once again, although having it come by way of his double was a little disconcerting.

"I believe that we have missed Auberge. However…"

Illya headed towards a gaudy, framed display of photographs; apparently the stars of the so-called show were very photogenic as well as … talented. With a little effort, Illya pulled back the side of the frame and a wall safe was displayed. It was a matter of a few minutes and he had it open, pulling from it the envelope he had been following the day before.

"That's the prize, then?"

Napoleon and Illya both turned to look at Ducky.

"Prize? Yes, I suppose so, although we do not normally refer to these things as such.'

Illya passed it to Napoleon who tucked it into his inside jacket pocket.

"I suggest we head back to headquarters. There is no point in confronting anyone else here, although I think a little mischief might be in order."

Illya placed a small incendiary, retrieved from the heel of his shoe, into the wall safe. He shut the door, spun the dial and turned around with a smile on his face.

"I don't think there will be anything left for Pierre when he returns. Victor Marton will be very disappointed for his man to lose all of those important documents."

All three men smiled at that.

Back at headquarters, three men stood facing Alexander Waverly. If he was not completely astonished, the old man was at least a little intrigued by the sight of not one, but two blond men who looked enough alike to be twins. More than that, they seemed exactly the same.

"We are not quite perfectly matched, Mr. Waverly. If you look more closely, I possess a gap between my two front teeth. It is a strange occurrence that, and I suppose some day may see me altering it a bit, though only a wee bit as many a lass has told me …'

The others stared at the blithe Scotsman as he continued to explain the charm of a smile that was imperfect, each of them convinced that for all the similarities, the two blonds were definitely not exact duplicates.


End file.
